


hades

by cityscaped (touchofgold)



Series: greek gods [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: 'my attempt at angst', M/M, Vague, angsty, death yes, i never used a name, iwa-chan isn't counted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 22:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7408444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchofgold/pseuds/cityscaped
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>—  ❝ help me, help me, i’m all out of lies, and ways to say you died ❞</p><p>in short, the fic where one of them is dead and events that follow after</p>
            </blockquote>





	hades

**hades** **—** the ancient greek chthonic god of the underworld **,** ruler of the dead

 

“help me, help me, i’m all out of lies, and ways to say you died”

 _Train_ **—** **_50 Ways to Say Goodbye_ **

* * *

 

Death was always a hard pill to swallow. _It’s not fair, why him, why not me?_ Thoughts of blame and regret clouds one’s mind, mixing together with grief, anger, sadness until one becomes this incoherent mush of feelings. The simple things in life could never be the same. The colour of coffee? _His hair was like coffee, with shit load of sugar and milk._ Stars? _His stupid obsession with aliens._ Even the thought of holding a ball brought back painful memories. _Iwa-chan!_ How could he let him slip away like that, he was stupid.

 

Oh so stupid.

 

His death trailed around him like a dark cloud, one that could never be shaken off. It wanted to be noticed. It screamed at him in _bright crimson,_ the sounds ringing in his mind that he could never forget, _the screeching of tires_ , the glazed look in his eyes before death swooped in and stole him for himself, _Iwa-chan,_ his final words. No matter how hard he tried to push those memories out that replayed in his mind over and over again like a movie that he had watched a million times. He could remember every moment perfectly and painfully.

 

There was one occasion where they promised to never be at. It was a promise made by naive eleven year olds on one fateful summer. Legs dangling at the edge of the stream side by side, the cool water rushing over, and beaming faces tanned and rosy by the sun. _Do you ever want to attend my funeral?_ The question was often disregarded, forgotten with a simple thwack to the head and a ‘shut up’. How he wished he could turn the hands of time and even bargain with Hades.

 

 _Five more minutes -_ he would plead. Anything. Just to see his face one last time, to say goodbye. As much as he would joke that he’d refuse to do anything for him, he knew that he would travel to the ends of the earth for just five more minutes. Five more minutes with his kisses, each carefully spanned out to last a minute, those soft plump lips that tasted like butterscotch. _But you don’t like butterscotch -_ “well I like them now”. Five more minutes of his soft voice, the one that lulled him to sleep countless nights before tournaments, the same voice that sent shivers up his spine whenever he merely breathed his name. Five more minutes of just being with him. _Please._

 

The funeral was always the hardest. To watch as his family mourn for the death of their son, the pain in a mother eyes as she cries out for her baby; the stony facade of a father who could only muster out a single tear before shattering in the comforts of his home; the uncontrollable wailing of siblings who idolised him, unable to tear their eyes away from the casket; relatives that he had only met maybe once or twice, rubbing backs and muttering apologies and condolences. As if it was their fault. To watch as another mother mourn for the loss of someone whom her son loved; a father’s usually stern face molded into one that had been touched by grief; a son who loved the other unconditionally.

 

He had also sworn to never wear a full black suit. _Sucks the colour out of him._ And here he was, on this spring day where the sakura was in full bloom dressed in a black suit that he could never see. The stupid sakura. Why couldn’t it wait for just _five more minutes_ ? The pink cherry blossom, guided by the gentle breeze, floated down the event like confetti that wouldn’t stop falling. However, _he_ liked sakura - pity _he_ was too dead to appreciate the beauty.

 

The pain of a closed casket funeral was different from one that was open. At least both sides will be able to see their loved one, for one last time before they were buried six feet underground completed with a slab of cement that was their only identity left in the world. In a closed casket funeral like this, knowing that the body that laid within was beyond mutilated not even science could fix, was like a sharp stab to the chest. He wouldn’t like that - he was often vain about his appearance. If his ghost were to witness the whole occasion he would complain about everything - from the appearance of his body to the whole gloomy setup of the funeral. A closed casket also meant that he was unable to kiss him one last time. What he would do for just one last kiss.

 

He was never good with words either. However, for him, he would do anything. Even write out a fucking eulogy that he thought he would never have to write. It had been carefully, yet shakily written on flashcards. The ink had glided smoothly across the paper, making each word obnoxiously crisp. His voice quavered as he read his eulogy, unable to make eye contact, and fixating his eyes on the paper before him as tears slowly forced themselves out.

 

He only made it past the first line.

 

After the funeral, hands awkwardly patted his back; and those who were close enough, snaked their arms around him and muttering words of condolences. He could only accept them with a hard swallow, their words turning into nothing but just a reminder of how dead he was. It was harder to face the parents, who could only embrace him and mutter about how much he loved him. Soon enough, the formality of hugs and condolences were over, along with the paying final respects to the dead body before it was lowered into the ground.

 

The first time he picked up the shovel was the first and last time he would ever pick one up. It was heavy in his hand, pulling him closer down to the earth. He had the honour of being the first to cast dirt over his casket. Some honour huh. He shut his eyes, scooping what he had hoped to be a reasonable amount of dirt before chucking it carefully over the casket with a satisfying thud. His knees buckled and he almost lost his balance. One by one, people began shovelling dirt into his casket, until it was completely covered to the top and flattened neatly.

 

He soon found himself the last one when the whole ceremony was over, kneeling over an unfinished grave sobbing his heart out. A photo frame was pressed against his chest, courtesy of his mother, along with a volleyball - a core and mutual love between them. Nobody could replace him as setter. _Nobody._ He bawled until his eyes were bloodshot red and his throat was raw from screaming. Nobody bothered to come near him, for they were too afraid of the consequences that would follow when disturbing a grieving man. The tears, however, had stopped flowing a long time ago as he sat on the soft earth ground in silence, the dampness of the soil seeping into his dress pants but he couldn’t care less. As the sun began to set, his phone nudged him in his pocket, vibrating and reminding him of the life he had to live now without his best friend, and his _boyfriend._

 

He didn’t get much sleep that night, tossing and turning, his mind on cue repeating the memories of a fatal car crash that took the life of a teenager. He was so young, with so much potential. Scouts were all over him, practically dying to have him at their schools and girls threw themselves at him, all desperate and vying for his attention - he _had_ a future. As he laid on his mattress that suddenly seemed so vast and big for his body, his eyes slowly gave into his body’s exhaustion and for once in his life, he fell into a dreamless slumber.

 

The morning after he returned to his grave. And the morning after. And the morning after. It was an endless and vicious cycle of waking up and walking to his grave. On a fine day, he would stay there for hours simply talking to him as if he was never dead. He would talk about something that happened the evening before, or maybe an anecdote from their childhood - anything to fill the empty air before him. There was always a fresh bouquet of flowers that sat on his grave, even a small memorial at their school - but no one could match the devotion that he poured into visiting him on a daily basis.

 

“ _Do you need help?_ ” was the first question his parents asked one day when he returned home from visiting his grave.

 

The conversation didn’t end very well. It was a blur of screaming, fists pounding against the floor, his throat burned and his eyes stung throughout the conversation - but any sane man knew that he needed help. He would probably have laughed at him if he was still alive. _You needing help? That’s funny._ Not long after, his daily routine of visiting his grave was shortened to a mere hour along with prescribed medication and hour long visits with a therapist.

 

He was never good with words, oh no. But when it came to the subject of death, he was a wordsmith. His death soon became a distant memory, the lies that he told people about his death soon consumed his mind and clouded his original memory of his death. Those lies would eventually catch up with him, every time a fresh one was to be told, an old tugging feeling would stop him at his throat - he was running out of lies, _and ways to say he died._

 

Maybe it was best that he forget.

 

Or maybe, it was best to join him.

**Author's Note:**

> this is iffy, this is vague - to be honest i had no idea what was going on in my mind it's like eleven i should give myself a break + apparently i like to write fics in hotels??


End file.
